About this Book

The group doubled, and doubled again, growing the way armies do as
they sweep through towns. By the time they arrived at the ceibo tree, the
sun had brushed its zenith and begun to slide. The tree towered over the
eastern well, and at the very top, thirty meters from solid earth, grasping
a slim branch, there perched a girl.

She was not quite a year old. Her skin was two shades lighter than hot
chocolate and she had high cheekbones and chaotic hair that spilled to
her naked waist. Her eyes were round and moist like birthday cakes. She
looked neither afraid nor eager to descend.

Artigas threw his head back. He burned to catch her eye. Mírame, he
thought.

The necks of fifty tacuaremboenses craned up at the girl. The tree
looked impossible to scale. If it had been a native ombú, with its low,
inviting branches, there would have been no miracle or legend or ninety
years of carrying the story. But here was the tallest ceibo known to
Tacuarembó, its lowest branch many meters from the ground. No one
could imagine an adult shimmying up with a baby in her arms, let alone
a baby's lonely climb.

"Very well. Doña Rosa, you've got your miracle."

"Our miracle."

"Miracles are miracles, what more can we say?"

"Only thanks be to God."

"If you say so."

"I do. I certainly do."

"I meant no harm."

"Hmm."

"Look, everybody, let's not quarrel."

"We've got to find a way to get her down."

"A ladder!"

"Let's shake her out."

"There's no ladder big enoughI know, I made them all."

"I could climb the tree"

"You can barely climb onto your horse, hombre!"

"We should wait for a sign"

"And what? Leave her up there for another century?"

The infant sat high above the din, impassive, barely moving. Artigas
thought: Mírame. She turned her head, this way, that way, and their eyes
met. You. You. Their gaze had flesh, their gaze had strength, their gaze
was a branch between them, invisible, unbreakable, bound to last forever,
or so it seemed.

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